Wicked
by The Brat Prince
Summary: Part of Giddy Brew short drabbles after the series. Reflections about the death of their three best friends slash lovers. Some are rather slashy, just to warn you. They are also full of implied sex.
1. Need

                He was sitting alone, at first, clutching his head in his hands, always too large for the rest of his body, too rough from all those nights playing the guitar, among other things, and the callouses that covered their surface never would tell those tales. His hair was mussed, his clothes unwashed, even though he had only to give them up to the house elves. But then, he wouldn't give them up, because they had her blood on them, and she, as always, was the root of the problem.

                When Bobby walked into the room, Casey didn't even bother to look up, and that was what broke him.

                "Don't be a git. You can't stay in here forever," he gestured to the disheveled common room, messed and mussed as his friends once glossy, aerodynamic hair, "The first years are complaining."

                "Why?" Casey choked out, and even though Bobby knew he wasn't inquiring about what he had said, he answered.

                "Have you smelled this place? It hasn't been cleaned since you locked yourself up here…I almost can't stand to live in this dump."

                With a pitiful half smile, Casey mumbled, "Neatnik," then returned to his sulking.

                It was okay, for a while. He managed to finish studying for the Potions exam Professor Esquiline had announced, and the Transfiguration project he'd been putting off for days. But by and by, his eyes fell on his friend once more, and he wanted to do the things he'd thought about since second year, because Casey was Casey, and no one could resist a Hargrove anyway. Back then he couldn't, because Bobby liked girls, not boys, and Casey definitely liked girls too much, and anyways, she was still there, still inhaling and exhaling and all those things she couldn't do now because she was dead. Dead, dead, dead.

                Never impulsive by nature, always the relaxed one, that's me, Bobby reminded himself, but went for the other boy anyway, putting his hands firmly on his shoulders, heart breaking when his eyes met Casey's, waning to empty, filling to the brim with tears. Boys don't cry, Bobby said, but not out loud, because when the tears won't fall the soul breaks, shatters worse than the heart. A heart can be repaired, but a soul never can be, and more than anything, Bobby wanted to keep Casey's spirit around for a while, for when he needed to be protected and comforted, someday in the future, when the roles were reversed and all this was forgotten.

                If only.

                If only.

                If only.

                The blonde pulled the redhead hard, by the collar, so that his body was firmly pressed against Casey's. He could feel the hot tears rolling down Casey's cheeks stream into the small crevices where their chests didn't quite fit together, although for all means and purposes their anatomy was tightly entwined. We need this, Bobby thought, even as his tongue delved into Casey's mouth, lips ruthlessly crushing roughly together, even as his hands started to roam on their own, we need this. And he, of all people, knew what it was like to need, rather than desire, with all it's 'wanting' connotations. Pure, raw need.

                Melancholy boy, he thought of Casey, sweet, bitter, agonized, scraped bare. The way his fumbling hands trembled, every so often, as though to say 'this isn't the way it should be'. But the way it should be wasn't the way Bobby wanted, and so the blonde suffered on, under the weight of his guilt, because the way it was now was the only way he ever needed it to be. If he would never be able to have Prue, and Casey was no longer able to have Prue, then he would take Casey, cut his losses before the game was out.

                Not that there was anything wrong with Casey. No, he was Casey Hargrove, and he was special, and Bobby had known that from the very first time he laid eyes on the other boy, in first year, the sorting hat lopsided on his head, grinning from ear to ear. The grin had faded, like every other scar, and now there was just him, scared and panting, sacred in his fear.

                Bobby wanted to devour him whole.


	2. Lyricist

                The routine was always the same, sweat on sweat, dripping, sticking to their skin. It would coat the floor of the broom closet off the old corridor above the Great Hall, where nobody ever walked because there was always the chance a bit of the floor would disappear and one would fall, right through the ceiling. Every single meeting, he crumpled into the other boy's arms, smaller, more wiry, more nimble. He had all the admirable qualities a lover needed, including the ability to stay quiet, a prelude before the song. 

                Orpheus felt like he could crush Cerulean, right there, with his hands, with his thighs; that slender throat, that amazing voice. Silence was a requirement, and not one he preferred. Many were the nights he mumbled, "I want to make you scream like a banshee, Hargrove," and was never able to fulfill the threat, if only because the redhead couldn't scream for fear of being heard, until recently, and certain objects in the closet still bore his teeth marks.

                Now he knew the silencing charm that he should have paid attention to back in third year, and now he knew the very nuance of every groan, whimper, and cry. Every crevice of his body was golden, only slightly changed over the years, darkened from worry.

                "You worry too much," Orpheus whispered, and it felt like notes to a song, something he'd never sing, because according to Cerulean, all his songs sounded like the most devilish sex noises strung together for a chorus.

                It was implied what Cerulean worried about, his brothers, their lives, their love. He never had enough time for his own life, except here, where time stood still, where their breath mingled in the often crisp air like ice crystals melting together, the same way their bodies melted into one another, hypocritical sweat falling away.

                Stupid girls, going and killing themselves, crushing Cerulean's brother in the process, and now he only worried more. The noises he made were louder, and more gutteral this time around, and the way that he behaved was much more seductive. He was frustrated, and taking it out on Orpheus.

                Not that the stronger boy minded. Some of the best sex he'd ever had, and usually, the sex was pretty damned good. It felt like music, pounding in his head, and his fingers moved to the rhythm, and with each movement of his fingers, Cerulean made more noise.

                "Please," he gasped, and they were the best lyrics ever.


	3. Grass

**Wicked**

_**Chapter 3: Grass**_

_By: Jondy Macmillan_

A/N: For Fish, whom the character of Serendipity is loosely based on and wholly belongs to. She bought me a DevArt three month subscription as bribery for this chapter. The Fish knows how to bribe me. Oh, and this chapter wasn't originally named Grass, but I forgot the original list of names, and I have a feeling this concept is better than whatever I first came up with.

* * *

She felt the blades of grass tickle the skin between her shoulder blades, but it didn't matter. It was good that they'd done this once before, because this wasn't the way she imagined it. Naked, in the Quidditch pitch near two in the morning. No girl dreams of losing her virginity that way, even if the stars overhead are twinkling much too brightly. Maybe, she thought, delirious with the pleasure of what she did and the pain of what she was trying to forget, the stars represented each of them down here on earth. She knew this wasn't true, after all, Professor Stellae was the best Astronomy around, but…The way each star winked in and out of existence in time with her heartbeat was too much to bear.

Things weren't supposed to turn out this way. All their plans, all those nights spent wide awake before exams, giggling about the future, were wasted. The future, what was that? Some intangible thing that she had strived to reach in perfect love and perfect trust, something pure and unsullied by the pain of the past; or so she'd once thought. Funny thing about the past, it had this unnerving way of becoming the present that could never be forgotten. Every wound she'd so recently endured would stay with her until the day she died, the residual memory of scars replacing their actuality once her skin was wrinkled and grey.

"It's not healthy for you to brood this way," Polaris murmured in the most cheerful tone he could manage. This wasn't like their first time, right before her birthday, when everything had been quiet and awkward and magic had crackled through the air.

"What else should I do?" Serendipity snapped in reply. She couldn't, wouldn't let herself feel bad for it. It was obvious that he was trying to help. Polaris was never upbeat, so why else would he be now, of all times? When the darkness had fallen over her soul? It was so strange; Sere had always imagined herself depending on Polaris. She had fancied him her shield against the harshness of the world. The truth was, he couldn't defend her from anything. He could only comfort her when the bad times had past.

She wrapped her hands around his broad shoulders, wondering if this was how all sex would be from now on, now that she'd had her one magical night. She remembered that night on the astronomy tower with a bottle of Firewhisky and a game of never have I ever. Prue and Serendipity had been the only ones sober amidst all the questions about who, what, when, where, and why were all their friends sluts?

He moved over her and she gasped, wrapping her legs tightly around his slender hips, her ankles crossing at the small of his back. The golden hoops loomed above her head and somewhere far away a wolf howled. The forest was unusually quiet tonight in the backdrop of the school. She wondered if any of the first years were looking out their window, staring at her pale insubstantial form as she and Polaris worked up a sweat. It was hard, she wanted all of her life to be romantic, like a fairytale. Why had her fairytale already turned sour. She was seventeen, and much too young to feel so empty.

"Are you really okay?" Polaris asked.

"No," Serendipity whispered into his ear, before she arched her back and gave in. He kissed her deeply, her helpless knight in shining armor. It couldn't be helped that she wasn't okay. Only a week had passed. Eventually, she'd be okay. No matter what, she resolved that she would be.

One day, Serendipity would be strong enough to be her own knight in shining armor. That was the thought that would comfort her tonight. That was the promise she made with herself as the moon washed over her body, invigorating her ever molecule. Polaris was moving faster now, and the rhythm of their breathing was harsh and short.

Serendipity swore she could count each and every blade of green, dewy grass that night, when the stars exploded in their heavens.

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Read and Review please! 


	4. Control

**Wicked**

_**Chapter 4: Control**_

By: Jondy Macmillan

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They'd grown apart over the past year. He still remembered when they became friends, right off the train to Hogwarts in first year. The then raven haired boy had been bragging to anyone who would listen that his dad was the richest man in London. Of course, he'd had to counter it. After all, not only was did he know for a fact that his father was the richest man in London, but he would have given anything to talk to that beautiful boy with ink black hair and eyes the color of faceted emeralds.

"Hi, I'm Joshua," he held out his hand. Those emerald eyes had widened in surprise.

"Dirk," he said simply, and from then on they'd been the best of friends.

It didn't even matter when his father had told him not to hang out with that Drake boy. Once upon a time Dirk's father had been rich, but that was long before Dirk was born. The ministry had repossessed everything, and their family was practically poor as dirt.

The first time they'd kissed, it had been an accident. It was third year, and Joshua was actually trying to tell him that his sister had a crush on him. Dirk took it the wrong way and leaned in. Tada, magic. It was only a peck on the lips. It was only the first kiss he'd ever had.

Now their chests were bare and pale in the empty class room, and Dirk knew that he wasn't what Joshua wanted anymore. Poor, poor Joshua. His heart hurt. His head hurt. His body hurt, even as the green haired boy licked his wounds. He wanted Dirk to take charge of him. He wanted everything to stop hurting. He tugged at the waistband of his sweat pants, "This really isn't the best place…"

"Shut up," Dirk commanded, and Joshua had missed him. He had started tutoring that mudblood bitch and suddenly was only half in his life. Then the brunette's sister had gone into a coma, and Joshua had found himself alone. He'd thought the slightly oriental, heartbroken girl in the front seat of Arithmancy would be some quick fun, an easy lay. He'd thought she might replace the hole in his life that Dirk had left.

Joshua moaned into his friend's mouth. Why, why, why? Why had she filled the hole, only to break it wide open all over again?

"You're not concentrating," Dirk growled, and shoved him roughly against the chalkboard. Joshua shoved him right back, ignoring his best friend's passionate groan. He ground him down into the desk, the same desk where she had sat, where she had smiled and laughed.

You can't trade one obsession for another, he thought, but somehow he had. She was gone, and he was here, while before it had been vice versa. There would be no more smiles, no more sly jabs at his house or secret pranks near midnight.

She had broken him, she had completed him.

"Don't," Dirk touched his face, and for a moment, he understood. He allowed his friend to switch their positions, he allowed himself to be controlled. If only for tonight, he could imagine black hair sifting through his fingers, and it wouldn't be a lie. It was only green on the outside, and if he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, it felt as soft as hers.

"I love you," he whispered into the night.


	5. Hush

**Wicked**

_Chapter 5: Hush_

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This couldn't be happening. Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to be fine, because he did not fall in love. The boy in the hall had the same coloring. His eyes weren't quite right and the smile was way off base, but he was definitely black marker material. He would have Noah's mark in the morning, maybe on that rock hard abdomen. Noah cherished boys who were in shape. He would shag him senseless, into blissful forgetfulness. He wasn't in love.

His vision darkened as he was slammed hard into the bed, and the tongue in his mouth wasn't the one he'd grown used to. It was too sloppy, too hasty, and nowhere near as gentle. This boy didn't taste like salsa and curry. This boy didn't smell like sea salt and strawberries. What difference did it make how he smelled, Noah thought angrily, and threw the boy's clothes roughly against the wall.

He'd made Frank sing for him once, and his voice hadn't been great. It had been beautiful, rough and soft against the veil of midnight, but Noah was sure no one would appreciate it but him. When they went to sleep, Noah would tap out the rhythm of his boyfriend's heart. One two three. One two three. One two three four, one two three.

Noah liked rhythms. He liked the way seeing Frank made his heart skip a few beats in his chest, and he'd put it in a song. He liked the way Frank's breathing sped up when he bit his neck or his earlobe. He even liked the way the blonde boy chewed his food, slowly then quickly then gulp and it was gone. He liked to listen to him talk, how he carefully chose his words then created a beautiful sentence.

He didn't like this boy's rhythm. He didn't like the way he said, "Oh baby, yes, please."

Who said baby anymore? He felt dirty and used, even though he was the one who was using.

His sheets still smelled like Frank.

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End file.
